Page 81 of The Boyfriend Goal

I am see-through. “Yes, but she’s my roommate.”

Natalie lets out a low whistle. “Oh, that hurts.”

“Tell me about it.”

We shoot the breeze a little longer, and she tells me about Frosty’s day. She adopted him recently from Little Friends and has been treating him like a prince. “Today, he went to the dog camp with the indoor pool and spent most of the day fetching tennis balls,” she says.

“So, he’s only a little bit spoiled?” I ask.

“He’s exactly as spoiled as he should be.”

“Tell him I’ll see him soon.”

“I will pass on the message.”

When we hang up, I stare at my phone. Weighing what’s next. Debating with myself. On the one hand, I shouldn’t act like I’m in a relationship with her. Especially since—I’m fucking not.

On the other hand, I want to text her. And lately, want wins.

Wesley: The cinnamon thingies were a hit, and the guys gave me hell.

Josie: Because?

Wesley: Because they’re dicks.

Josie: Prank them!

Wesley: Not a bad idea. You prankster.

Josie: Do that one where you cut the bottom of their laces, so they can’t tell at first.

Wesley: You know hockey pranks?

Josie: Um, yes.

I don’t ask why. It’s obvious. Her brother. And the more I get to know Josie, the less I want to make my relationship with her about him. He’s hardly the reason I need to resist her. I need to resist her because I live with her. And because she’s leaving. I shift to another topic altogether.

She’s told me about the cat at her library and sometimes sends me pics.

Wesley: How’s Raccoon?

Josie: He spends a lot of time licking his balls.

She’s so blunt sometimes it kills me.

Wesley: I’ll probably regret asking, but where in the library does he lick his balls?

Josie: On a big yellow chair in the children’s section. He has zero shame. And, since he’s neutered, zero balls.

Wesley: But so much hope.

The Vegas Sabers are sluggish the next night. But we are sluggish-er. It’s a slow game. Hardly anyone crashes into the boards. Or slams into each other. I’m not an enforcer so it’s fine by me, but we need something to liven up this game since we deserve to lose.

During the second intermission, Christian is fired up. In the visitor’s locker room, he’s all business as he says: “We can do better. We came here to win and we’re all skating like it’s a fucking stroll in the park and we’re hungover. Get out there and show some grit.”

It’s embarrassing, the acknowledgement of how we’re playing. But a swift kick in the uniform pants with a sharp blade is what we need. When we hit the ice for the final period, we’re chasing the puck ferociously. Making plays ruthlessly. And eking out a win on enemy ice. An hour later, we’re soaring out of the city of sin, its glittery lights and bright billboards fading in the midnight sky as we fly toward the East Coast.

The plane is quiet, as night flights often are. There’s no trash talk at this hour, so I take out my phone to listen to some music, but before I click on an R&B playlist that helps me sleep, I find a note from my roomie.

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